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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907744">It Takes a Lot to Know a Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerahAdmoni/pseuds/SerahAdmoni'>SerahAdmoni</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lucifer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5A Compliant, Dad Be Damned, Ella Lopez &amp; Lucifer Morningstar Bonding, Ella Lopez &amp; Lucifer Morningstar Friendship, Ella Lopez Finds Out, Gen, Lightbringer Stan, Lucifer Morningstar Wants to Punish the Wicked, Lucifer Morningstar's Hangover Breakfast Buffet, Unproductive Navel-Gazing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:26:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerahAdmoni/pseuds/SerahAdmoni</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the past forty eight hours, Lucifer has been shot, the Detective has been kidnapped by his evil twin, he has apprehended a serial killer, his commitment has been questioned, and his Father has descended from on high to grace them with His presence. And that’s just before dinner. An unexpected houseguest rearranges not only his plans for a quiet night of rest and reflection, but also his understanding of true friendship. (Companion piece to "<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420055">To Endure Gladly</a>.")</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ella Lopez &amp; Lucifer Morningstar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>It Takes a Lot to Know a Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Eternal gratitude to my beta and cheerleader, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/childliketendencies/pseuds/childliketendencies">childliketendencies</a>, all mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone. This piece overlaps and extends “<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420055">To Endure Gladly</a>” from Lucifer’s POV and I'd recommend reading it first for complete context. Both will act as a BroTP companion to a much larger, much longer plotty ensemble/Deckerstar work. Totally not what was originally intended, but a delightful surprise nonetheless. All credit to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/childliketendencies/pseuds/childliketendencies">childliketendencies</a> for removing the box around what I thought was an Ella POV standalone. AKA: Lucifer ruminates and finds out Ella knows what she now knows. Title courtesy of dear <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/4u5AkKJMRMhhdycX8GpQcY?si=0918d94ddee044c6">Damien Rice</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Free will, the true sort anyway, demands a degree of chaos. It’s the compulsory price of admission. Once, he’d found the novelty exhilarating - that after eons of tedious monotony, Chloe Decker strolled into his life and turned it, quite literally, inside out.</p><p>Now? He could do with a little predictability. Some unalienable truth to cling to in the face of endless uncertainty.</p><p>Lucifer strokes the steering wheel, palms molded to flesh-warmed leather as if it’s all there is to keep him tethered. Perhaps it is. </p><p>“Boss?” Evan hovers, fingers cinched around the door handle, his eyebrow quirked with the question. A sidling shuffle tells him the poor boy has already asked at least once. So Lucifer surrenders his keys and a hundred for the trouble then levers himself out of the Corvette feeling every Dad-damned mili-second of the last forty-eight hours. </p><p>Lux throbs its welcome, the open door belching light, heat, and sweat in equal measure. At this late hour, shadows have crept into the corners, concealing clusters of young and beautiful creatures performing unspeakable acts. Liquor flows. Inhibitions vanish. Normally the bacchanalian revelry would lift his spirits, proving the purpose of this place or, at the very least, providing a welcome distraction. Tonight, the mask of footloose and fancy-free playboy requires too much effort to maintain. Lights burn too bright, the gloom cuts too deep, music thrums far too loud, and the veneer glossed over every too wide smile betrays its cracks. Had Lucifer been altogether present upon arriving, he’d have used the private entrance.</p><p>Resigned, he slips in amongst the throng. Even though he skirts the dance floor, people turn in his wake - watching, whispering. Patrick catches his eye from behind the bar, speaking volumes with a tilt of his head and a glance flicked skyward. Someone in the penthouse. Perceptive as ever, Patrick starts to pull a bottle of fairly standard Laphroaig off the wall then thinks better of it and goes to knee, rummaging through the back bar, only to emerge with one of three 50 year-old bottles of Dalmore still lingering in Lucifer’s private collection. The measure he pours is perfect, and Lucifer closes his eyes to savor notes of coffee and orange, the zip of anise at the end. Whatever he’s getting paid, Patrick deserves a raise. </p><p>“Who?” Lucifer asks. Renewed knots of tension crawl up his spine to settle in his shoulders. </p><p>Patrick sighs, swipes at a non-existent speck of dirt on the bar top. Fastidious one, he is. Even in his compromised state, Lucifer catalogs the action, making a mental note to speak with Lana about him. “Lopez. Showed up around four, four thirty. She’s on the list; wouldn’t have made it up otherwise.” </p><p>“Ah.” </p><p>“If you don’t mind my saying, sir, you look like shit.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” he sighs, flicking a flake of ash from his sleeve, and finds he lacks the words to articulate the maelstrom spinning inside him. Dad. Mazikeen. Daniel. Michael. Miss Lopez. The Detective. Not that Patrick cares. Nor should he. Caring is exhausting. Lucifer tips back the last of the Dalmore, leaves another hundred tucked under the glass, and starts to thread his way through the crowd to the elevator. Interest ripples in his wake, desires sifted to the surface by his passage, but no one steps between him and the promised sanctuary of the penthouse. </p><p>Whatever brought Miss Lopez here of all places, Lucifer truly wants no part of it. Any other night, he would endure, gladly. For she is a light unto herself, shining so unbearably bright it stirs in him nostalgia for the stars he birthed in the cradle of creation, the flush of pride he felt at their carefully controlled inferno. To see her natural radiance dimmed by suffering, well, it puts a now familiar tightness in his chest, and Lucifer reached the maximum allotment of bloody baffling human emotions he can carry at one time when Mazikeen hissed at him in the guttural language of the Lilim and spat in his face.</p><p>On a whisper, the elevator doors open and bass bombards him. Synthesizers soar, piercing reality in their climb. Four long strides and a twist of wrist ends the barrage. Lucifer braces against the wall to reorient. </p><p>This, this is the absolute last thing he needed. </p><p>Miss Lopez protests with a whined, “Heeeeey,” that allows him to locate her, spilled in an ungainly sprawl between the desk and the back of the couch - eyes closed and knuckles bloodied. The halo of her hair lies limp around her head, a dark snarl that blends with the marble. A denim jacket hangs haphazardly on one of the barstools, sneakers tucked beneath. Balled up socks emblazoned with what look to be dancing pickles in party hats rest in the corner of his bar sink alongside a long, ragged strip of lemon peel.</p><p>Despite the slovenly encroachment, sympathy wins out. </p><p>They have both been betrayed in inexcusable ways, and she deserves her implosion. Her eyes slit open then close again, shades drawn against the world. </p><p>“Off the wagon again, I see,” he says. Again the operative word. Last time Miss Lopez careened into the deep end of broken faith, drugs, and alcohol had been after Charlotte. This why, the one she will inevitably drop at either his Father’s feet or her own, at least seems a lighter load to bear. Those nearest and dearest to them still draw breath. As does Pete, which is unfortunate.</p><p>“Wagon, what wagon?” she shouts suddenly, arms swooping wildly through the air. “Radio Flyin’ all the way, buddy”</p><p>“That most high and holy wagon.” Lucifer presses palm to palm and tips his chin toward those gleaming, glorified gates before remembering there’s no one home. Dad’s here. On Earth. No doubt dripping his bloody inscrutable nonsense all over Dr. Linda’s couch while Amenadiel perches nearby, obedient as a plump little lark.</p><p>Over the last few years, his brother had become an ally. Now, well, there’s no doubt with whom his loyalty will lie when he’s pressed. And after all they’ve been through to come to a place of understanding. Amenadiel, like most of creation, still believes in Dad’s inherent goodness, even if he now finds the Silver City a snore. Lucifer takes a step, then two. A stone lodges in his gut setting it to churn and he looks for something, anything to keep himself from following that particular line of thought to completion. There, on the coffee table, every last one of his carelessly concealed party favors strewn about as if an entire punk band and their roadies had come to call instead of one tiny woman with her paralyzing pain.</p><p>“Though it appears you’re managing high well enough,” he mutters, wondering how much of what she’s taken, whether he should be getting her into a cold shower or worse. Still conscious and mostly lucid, so it’s likely fine. For now. Dad help them both if he’s to be responsible for determining how much is too much. </p><p>Lucifer slips behind the bar to pour a sorely needed draught. It will take three bottles worth at least to dull this particular edge. Certainly, it would be more efficient to seek succor straight from the source, but he’s no heathen</p><p>“Yeah, well. Me and the Big Guy, we’re ride or die,” she says and he turns one of his rocks glasses upright a bit more forcefully than intended. Thankfully it survives intact. “Good as He is,” Lucifer snorts, a sharp, undignified sound.</p><p>”I have to live here,” she continues, and the corners of her mouth dip into a moue of distaste before she sways unsteadily up to an elbow and drinks down four shots worth of what appears to be top shelf vodka at an alarming rate. She raises the bottle, a parody of triumph, and it wavers in her grip, nearly slipping free to find the floor or her forehead.”Consider this, medication.”</p><p>And there’s the straw. Lucifer abandons his own drink to collect hers before it assaults her or she assaults herself with it. </p><p>“Perhaps you’ve already ingested your recommended daily dosage,” he sighs as he plucks the bottle from her grip, and apparently it’s her turn to make an undignified noise. Suddenly boneless, she flops to the floor again as if someone cut her strings. Her bare toes curl and she shivers.</p><p> “No judgement, of course.” Lucifer finally fills his glass to near overflowing, draining it with a single tip and a low, lovely burning sensation in his chest. He means it, of course, he’d never judge. “I simply thought, given all that’s happened today, you might prefer to avoid a trip to the ER. Not that I know from personal experience, but I wager having your stomach pumped is fairly unpleasant.”</p><p>Her expression, normally vibrant even in this state, slips into unnatural stillness. For a long time, she lies there, slowly reanimating in miniature tics and twitches. Only the steady rise and fall of her chest assures him she’s still alive and reasonably well. The silence leaves Lucifer to unwelcome woolgathering and soon he’s lost on craggy paths choked with thickets and thorny undergrowth. It gives him space to ask himself again: what if Mazikeen is right? What if she has always been right? Is he truly his own worst enemy when it comes to the Detective?</p><p>If not some irreparable brokenness etched into his very core, what prevents him from telling her how much he — Because he does, more than the glittering galaxies he hung in the heavens. More than anything, truly. He voluntarily went back to Hell for her, a place he loathes beyond telling, to protect her.</p><p>But…</p><p>Miss Lopez cuts in quietly, a waver caught between consonants that’s completely out of character. “Bad things have always happened to good people,” she says. “Why is what baffles me. I mean, this would still be the actual worst but, you know, I would at least have a reason.”</p><p>The eternal bloody question. Why?</p><p>“We both know that’s not the way Dad works,” he barks with bitterness, and Miss Lopez murmurs a garbled response.</p><p>“That’s...so bad,” she echoes when he hums, stilted and louder than necessary.</p><p>She’s right, of course. For a moment Lucifer considers what it might have been like to have a Father who knew how to communicate, who shared freely and did his best to steer his allegedly beloved children away from danger instead of watching as they rushed headlong toward it. What would it have been like to have answers? Lucifer wishes he could give them to her. </p><p>Perhaps he can at least try.</p><p>Decided, Lucifer tucks the bottle into the crook of his elbow and closes the gulf between them. While he unequivocally sympathizes with her plight, this is still Prada despite the ground in ash and odorous brimstone stench courtesy of an unscheduled trip down under. It’s not meant for the floor except under much more scintillating circumstances. The chair he tugs along in his wake catches the corner of the rug and it claps back against the marble audibly as he frees the legs. Miss Lopez flinches and her eyes snap open about as focused as Monet’s le bassin aux nymphéas.</p><p>Now then, where to begin. Lucifer swirls the amber liquid in his glass twice, three times, and yes. Pete’s final barb, his dead eyes calling her out as kindred. </p><p>“I’ve been around awhile, Miss Lopez,” he starts, the words buried beneath both the weight of his interminable years and the lightness of how impossibly, exquisitely full the last few have been. Even in the midst of seemingly unending turmoil and occasional torment, he’s grateful. Never before has he felt part of a team. Known people who would come for him if it was required. Not because of what he could do for them, not because they were beholden to him or bound into his service. But because they were <i>good</i>, and they chose to. </p><p>Good they may be, but even they are marked by darkness. Amenadiel once resurrected a dirty cop for the sole purpose of murdering him. Daniel, too, tried to murder him less than forty-eight hours ago. And the Detective, the best person he has ever known, she’s hurt him, lied to him, and conspired with religious zealots. </p><p>No one stands blameless. No, not one. “And if there’s one thing I know,” he says, “it’s that everyone has darkness in them.”</p><p>“How did you…?” A furrow creases her brow then she trains lopsided finger-guns at the wall three feet to his left. “Riiiiight, because you’re the Devil.”</p><p>This again.</p><p>“Yes, of course I am. Where have you <i>been</i>? One has nothing to do with the other.” </p><p>And really, Lucifer has no earthly idea why everyone seems to think being Beelzebub grants him some sort of mystical telepathic powers while simultaneously refusing to believe he is who he claims to be. Mortals. Nothing in the “approved narrative” supports it. Prince of Air and Darkness, certainly. But omniscience is one divine gift dear old Dad kept to himself. Of late he has simply developed a bit of a knack for noticing</p><p>He sighs. “I just...” Noticed her. Lucifer shifts to retrieve the decanter and top off his scotch, knocking back half of it in the next breath. From the day she accosted him with bright-eyed affection at a crime scene and told him he, the Devil, wasn’t so bad despite the cross around her neck. Then Azrael of course. Well, he’d always been a sucker for riddles. The Detective is proof positive of that. “I just know you,” he finishes finally. “Of all the things that cretin did, the innumerable ways he proved himself unworthy, of course you would take his pathetic parting salvo to heart.”</p><p>If Miss Lopez is so willing to believe the worst in herself, what hope remains for the rest of the world? Especially eternally damned angels who haven’t seen God’s good graces since the Earth was a bloody newborn.</p><p>Some truths are universal whether you choose to believe them or not.</p><p>“All that really matters in the end are the choices you make.”</p><p>“Dude,” she says, wide-eyed, thick tendrils of hair spun haphazardly across her forehead. “Then I am so screwed.You have no idea…”</p><p>Lucifer interrupts the familiar refrain, he’s heard it thousands of times sitting across the table from someone who’s come seeking favors. “The mistakes you’ve made? The people you’ve hurt? The relationships you’ve ruined?” Heat rises under his collar and he abandons his scotch temporarily, decanter and glass placed well beyond her flailing range.  Above all, she must understand this. “You have to get past that...Go to confession. Go to Reno. Pop a molly. I’ll cart you to Cedars if I must. Whatever you do, don’t carry it with you.”</p><p>She doesn’t deserve damnation. The cruelty inherent in Dad’s design enrages him anew, that someone like Miss Lopez or the Detective could end up in Hell thanks to unresolved regret. </p><p>“But Pete…” she whispers, curling onto her side, her palm clapped over her mouth as if she’s suppressing true keening cries. And Lucifer understands, perhaps for the first time, how truly close they’d come to losing her - the angry pink thumbprint tattooed on the side of her neck and the pinprick spots of red carved into the crests of her eyebrows convince him as much. </p><p>Anger flares fever bright, waking the basest of his instincts, the hot, white center of his terrible purpose - the need to punish. As he’d punished the demons whose audacity necessitated his return to Hell. Julian. Cain.  As he’d tried to punish Michael’s insolence in taking Chloe before he’d been interrupted.</p><p>Pete hurt innocents. Pete deceived and hurt Miss Lopez, would have killed her had she not been both resourceful and determined.</p><p>“Pete is a sociopath,” he spits, and the arm of the chair creaks, sharp splintering sounds erupting where his grip has tightened. Propriety be damned, Lucifer rescues the decanter and drains what little is left in four long swallows that fan the flames of his ire. “Pete’s ticket is punched for the most horrific berth the Pit has on offer. Make no mistake.”</p><p>Miss Lopez coils in on herself, nose to knees, fingers white-knuckled around her shins, and panic in her eyes. She twitches when he rises, the scrape of chair leg against the marble enough to startle. Lucifer sighs.</p><p>For this - standing by and allowing the authorities to work their will when it comes to that human stain - he may well need a case of booze. </p><p>Lucifer eyes the riotous mess she’s made of his coffee table longingly on his journey to the bar for a fresh bottle, but ignores the impulse. Put simply, he doesn’t trust himself to stop and Miss Lopez needs…his ills are more existential and less immediate in nature. </p><p>Before returning to his vigil, Lucifer slips out of jacket and waistcoat, draping both neatly over the back of an empty barstool, cufflinks tucked in the pocket so he can roll up his horrifically rumpled sleeves. He liberates a bottle of Booker’s and makes his way back to his chair to settle in.</p><p>Where had he been before the weasel derailed him? Darkness. Since the dawn of time, since — if his sniveling brother is to be believed — Michael manipulated him into offering Eve her heart’s desire, duality has been humanity’s natural state. Stained by sin, ever striving for the light. Amenadiel and Mum, they never understood that immortality aside, Lucifer has far more in common with mere mortals than he has ever had with his host of celestial siblings. </p><p>“Everyone has darkness in them, Miss Lopez,” he repeats, and her eyelids flutter open, her gaze alert, curious and penetrating for the first time tonight. “Your shadows, your scars - they’re part of who you are.” His own define him, but Dad be damned he’s trying. </p><p>“They’ve made you strong. Made you brave. Made you choose to accept people, love people as they are, rather than how you wish they were.” </p><p>If only. If only his scars earned him those kinds of gifts. So far they’d tied his tongue, slapped up ring upon ring of impenetrable ramparts, and instilled in him a deep suspicion of anything good happening without horrific consequences. If only they had given him strength, bravery, and love. Lucifer tips the bottle of bourbon to his lips and swallows until his eyes water from the sting of high proof liquor in his nostrils. His lungs seize and that tightness in his chest returns with a vengeance, a monolithic vise crushing his ribs. </p><p>The Detective accepts him. Dr. Linda accepts him. Miss Lopez accepts him. None of them truly know. </p><p>“That’s an incredibly rare and beautiful quality, Ella,” he chokes out anyway.</p><p>Names have power, or they can when used correctly, carefully. Miss Lopez blinks at him owlishly when he says hers. </p><p>Chloe’s name is a benediction, likely the only one he will ever utter. Is Mazikeen right?  Has he set himself up for failure? He would happily worship at the Detective’s altar until the heavens cleave and crumble, but have those scars that define him left him unfit for even that much? </p><p>More importantly, does he deserve acceptance? Deserve her?  Either of them? <i>Any</i> of them?</p><p>No. </p><p>
  <i>An ancient rumble more fury than sound blooms from the wasteland of memory. The Word, “Banished,” followed by incandescent pain.</i>
</p><p>Would Miss Lopez accept him if she knew? Her own scars make her more likely to, and he hopes but for now that’s all he can do.</p><p>“Don’t let him take that from you,” he says.  He can hear the undercurrent of desperation in his own voice and tosses back another swig of bourbon to disguise the quiver. </p><p>It occurs to him he may never be enough. Never whole. <i>Never</i> worthy. But that doesn’t keep him from wanting.</p><p>Immediate issues. She has been still and silent far too long. </p><p>“Miss Lopez?”</p><p>Her voice cracks, a high pitched yip of sound “Still awake and whoa-kay. That got super-heavy,” she exclaims, clearly deflecting. “I am officially in no condition for productive navel-gazing right now, trust me.” She raises her head, trying to sneak a peek at her belly button, but quickly succumbs to gravity’s pull.</p><p>Laughter, warm and welcome, peals out of him. Sometimes, she reminds him so much of Azrael, the Azrael before his fall. Lucifer misses her, the memory of her anyway, the bright and carefree creature his baby sister had been before death punched every slot on her dance card. The knowledge burns bittersweet to match his bourbon and deflection, warranted or otherwise, greets him as an old friend. </p><p>“We’re not that different you know,” Lucifer says, and despite the inexorable pull of uncertainty and sorrow, he leans down to pluck a strand of hair out of her eyes and smiles a smile Miss Lopez returns, too full of teeth to be entirely natural. For both their sakes, he pretends otherwise and sets about spinning his own deviations to amuse and distract them. </p><p>Miss Lopez doesn’t make it to the punchline. Less than half way through his delightfully bawdy tale of a week spent with Ovid getting a literal lay of the land, she mutters a string of gibberish under her breath that trails off into a soft snore. Any other time, he might have been offended by the unspoken commentary on his storytelling skills, but she’s earned her rest as much as her implosion. </p><p>In the sudden silence, he drifts, a derelict shipwreck aching for rocks to crash himself against. Eventually, he sets ashore the same place he departed. With why. Why has Dad deigned to grace them with not only acknowledgement, but his presence? Why now? Why after all his years of imposed confinement is Hell now fully functional without a warden? Why can’t he say the words the Detective needs to hear? <i>Why</i> must everything be so complicated?</p><p>Beyond the immutable fact that it is, Lucifer can’t settle on any one answer, only maybes too nebulous to offer any true insight. Exhaustion claws at his reason until everyone, everything feels like an enemy. </p><p>So for the moment, he simply stops trying to make sense of it all. </p><p>When he stands, Miss Lopez stirs, rolling onto her side with fingers twitching. Lucifer keeps to the rug as best he can, collecting his discarded garments as he goes. Were they less damaged, he might drop them off at Cynthia’s with a note to do the best she can, but there’s a scorch mark seared across the shoulders he hadn’t noticed before so all of it is bound for the bin. The shoes he toes off and sets aside for a shine. No permanent damage done. Lucifer wishes he could say the same for himself, for Miss Lopez, but only time will tell.</p><p>Grit between his fingers, ash residue in his hair, on the back of his neck. He’d noticed neither before, but now in this place of setting other things aside, it makes him itch and he wants to be clean. </p><p>First, though, he must see to Miss Lopez. And restore order to the whirlwind she unleashed.</p><p>One of the benefits born out of entertaining frequent overnight guests, though less frequently now, there are always spare pillows. They sit, stodgy little soldiers across the top shelf of his closet, each a different fill or size or rise. There’s no way to be certain what Miss Lopez prefers without asking, but he knows from experience anything’s better than marble especially as night spins on into the wee hours of morning and the last of the day’s borrowed heat seeps away. Pillow case zipped and spare coverlet wrested from the cupboard, Lucifer makes his way back out to the great room. </p><p>Miss Lopez hasn’t moved but her snores turn to quiet exhalations as he settles the pillow on the widest part of the couch.</p><p>“Up you get,” he murmurs, capturing her at knee and shoulder and transferring her gently from the floor in a smooth pivot. She stirs again, once, burrowing into the pillow, and curls her knees in tight. Even in sleep she’s trying to make herself as small as humanly possible. Lucifer sighs and drapes the blanket over her, then does what he can to set things right without waking her. </p><p>Drugs and the associated paraphernalia get scooped hodge-lodge back into the box to be stowed. Lemon peel discarded. Socks returned to pair with shoes. Bottles collected for disposal. Counter wiped. He dims the overhead lights on the way back to his en suite, tapping one of the bedside lamps for his own benefit. </p><p>Any other time he might linger under the shower’s scalding spray, but too long alone with his thoughts today has proven to bear only frustration. He washes mechanically, scrubbing at both skin and scalp until the water that sluices off his body and circles the drain runs clear. A perfunctory towel-dry and a pair of sleep pants are the best he can manage, though it means he’ll have to do all this again in the morning.</p><p>He’s just so bloody tired. </p><p>So he sleeps.</p><p>***</p><p>Consciousness captures him all at once - eyes wide, every muscle tense and straining. His heart beats hard in his chest. </p><p>From the great room he hears,“Holy bananas,” followed by a soft rustle of fabric and a groan. Then staggering footsteps, the unmistakable pad of bare feet against marble. </p><p>No demons afoot. Nor angels for that matter. Just Miss Lopez tumbling off the couch. Lucifer releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and collapses against the pillows, prepared to slip back into slumber. The slant of light through the curtains tells him it’s early yet. Well, early for him anyway, and he’d happily sleep at least another hour if not two. Yesterday had not been kind.</p><p>Rubber squeaks, followed by a thud and a whispered, “Come on,” as she creeps quietly around the bar, opening and closing doors and drawers. Not quietly.</p><p>“Ugh…what is that even <i>for</i>?”</p><p>Despite the clinging cobwebs of fatigue that threaten to consume him, Lucifer relents and finds his feet, rolling his shoulders to wake the weary muscles there and in his arms. Once he reaches the end of the rug, the cool kiss of stone tugs him the rest of the way ‘round.</p><p>“Where in the world?” she murmurs, and he finally sets eyes on her. She’s pulled herself back together most of the way and is bent at the waist, tossing couch cushions gently aside. Her hair floats and furls as another one whumps onto the pile. She steadies herself on the arm, the other palm pressed against her thigh, then rolls her head lazily as if she’s still trying to work out the kinks. </p><p>“Shall I call my interior designer? Tell her you fancy redecorating?” Miss Lopez spins, hand slapped over her heart.</p><p>“Lucifer, <i>jeez</i>. Scare me half to death.” The shock bleeds out of her expression and she winces, leaving a tiny kernel of fear and pain behind. If he didn’t know her, he’d simply chalk the look up to a night spent on someone else’s couch and her hangover, but he does — know her. Behind the dark circles, the squint, and the furrow cut between her brows, there’s a sense of trapped rabbit about her, restless and vigilant. Could be residual from the monster she’d met yesterday, but he had always thought Miss Lopez more resilient. </p><p>Curious. Two stairs and he’s there, not close enough to crowd but to hover, watching. Honestly, he’s no bloody idea what she’s hunting or he’d help. </p><p>She rubs her temples, turns back to the couch in slow motion, frowns, then glances over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Are you allergic to clothes or something?”</p><p>“My house, my rules. Only fair,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk, and the banter feels good, like he’s seated in his own skin again. Not that the questions have disappeared so much as they’ve emigrated, occupying less prominent corners of his mind. Then, because Lucifer Morningstar is and will ever be a consummate host, he tracks down a robe and slips it on, cinching the belt around his waist. </p><p>When he returns, the couch once again resembles a couch and Miss Lopez has collapsed in on herself and slumped into one of his armchairs. She hums and sighs, shading her eyes against the light that’s slowly invading the room. Lucifer leans against the wall</p><p>“Don’t think we’re not talking about all this,” she says, gesturing at the loose vee of whiteboards scrawled stem to stern with Douche-inspired revenge scenarios.“Right now, I just need to find my phone.” </p><p>“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”</p><p>Lucifer retrieves his own phone from the nightstand and scrolls through his contacts. Music erupts from one of the bookcases across the room and she winces again, trudging toward the sound until she finally lays hands on the thing, scrambling to shut it up. </p><p>“Ugh,” she says and grips one of the shelves, unsteady on her feet. </p><p>“See, no need to toss the entire penthouse.” </p><p>Miss Lopez smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her mouth presses into a thin pink line, her face pale.</p><p>“Yeah. So. I should — um, get out of your hair. Thank you for letting me crash last night. I couldn’t…” she trails off, suddenly crestfallen. There are myriad ways that particular sentence could end, and Lucifer finds he’s unable to puzzle it out.</p><p>“Nonsense,” he says, “You’re always welcome, Miss Lopez, and I wouldn’t hear of you tromping off into LA traffic with a hangover until you’ve at least had breakfast.”</p><p>“This may be LA, but even here I don’t think you can DoorDash at six in the morning.”</p><p>Sweet summer child. Lucifer laughs, not at her expense of course but the absurdity of his life, here, on Earth. There’s no way for her to know he has a twenty-four hour messenger service on speed dial. Or that they would happily bring him much more than a plate of eggs whenever he desires. Money certainly talks, but favors are a far more lucrative currency.</p><p>“I have managed to keep myself alive thus far.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Disbelief edges out most of the fear, and there’s a miniscule twinkle in her eyes that seems promising. “With maids and bartenders and valets and Maze?” She ticks each off on her fingers before her eyes slide shut again.</p><p>“You wound me.” He swoons with mock affront. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook.” </p><p>“Challenge accepted,” she says with a slow but genuine grin, and if the promise of food can set her to rights, he’s all too willing to provide. “Wanna put some money where your mouth is, because I don’t see anything remotely resembling a kitchen in this tastefully appointed bachelor’s bonanza.”</p><p>Lucifer quirks a brow and offers his hand, her eyes narrow, but she takes the three necessary if wobbly steps to shake it anyway. Like him, the penthouse has always been more than meets the eye.</p><p>He breezes by her, tossing a, “Follow me,” over his shoulder as he takes the stairs between his towering bookcases two at a time, down through the arch and left three paces, tight hairpin then down again and through a second arched doorway to his right. Secreted away as it is, this part of his home is no less open. Where the upstairs rooms with his bar, bed and balcony, the lavish bathroom and shelves full of trinkets are meant for public consumption, this is — not. No less stylish, of course, but quieter. </p><p>“Dios mio,” she whispers, coming to a stuttered stop at his elbow. “I had no idea this was here.”</p><p>“Wrong deity, I fear, but appropriate sentiment.”</p><p>Miss Lopez chuckles nervously, hisses, starts to say something, but then decides against it, mouth snapped shut around the words.</p><p>Curiouser.</p><p>On this lower level, there are bedrooms tucked away, one that used to belong to Mazikeen he’s refurbished since she decided to strike out on her own, two bathrooms, an office where Lux’s ledgers and his private journals live. But there’s no tour in the offing today, his mission — breakfast.</p><p>The kitchen, really just a modified galley demarcated by an island, runs about half the length of the long wall to the right. All the appliances are state of the art, still essentially brand new several years after installation. Six plush bar stools upholstered in a deep cerulean blue sit tucked beneath the island’s overhang, simple drop pendants providing warm circles of light. </p><p>Lucifer crosses to the commercial side-by-side refrigerator and starts to gather ingredients.</p><p>“Eggs or pancakes?” he asks, returning to the island laden with an armload to support either option only to find Miss Lopez arrested by the chandelier mounted above his dining table. The table itself seats sixteen and has never been used, but he justifies the purchase as an anchor for the work of art on the ceiling above. Custom of course - designed to his precise specifications - pulled tendrils in silver, copper, and bronze littered with varying sizes of hand blown glass globes, filament strung throughout so bulbs aren’t a concern save for the five brightest points of light.</p><p>Mazikeen had called it his rat’s nest.</p><p>Miss Lopez ignores the original question, transfixed. “This is a galaxy,” she declares, matter-of-fact.</p><p>His first wrought in terrestrial metals and glass. Everyone remembers their first.</p><p>Perhaps not his best. Andromeda had been a true delight, almost whimsical in the way it spun together. But he remembers the pure joy of drawing the elements, the ecstasy of writing his name on those brightly twinkling clusters of excited energy for the first time. His own personal nuclear reaction hung on the sleeve of night’s shroud.</p><p>“Lucifer.”</p><p>Her eyes swim with unshed tears when she turns, but there’s no sorrow in her, all traces of the fear from earlier long forgotten. Nor does she seem hurt beyond the obvious evidence of over-consumption and the bruises on her neck that are easing their way toward lavender. With a heavy sigh and deliberate steps, she crosses to join him, settling onto one of the stools like she’s made a decision. </p><p>Perplexed, he gives up waiting for an answer about her breakfast preferences and begins to chop - peppers, onions, mushrooms, slivered strips of ham, then crouches to retrieve a bowl for the eggs. </p><p>“<i>Lucifer</i>.”</p><p>He stills, sighs. Just breakfast. He’d wanted breakfast and perhaps a cup of liberally whisky-laced coffee before — before what? Ever since he woke up there’s been the low thrum of expectation hanging in the air. Quite frankly, it’s too early.</p><p>“Miss Lopez.”</p><p>“Did you make that?” she asks softly, her tone almost reverent. She points over her shoulder at the fixture on the ceiling.</p><p> Lucifer scoffs, “Heavens, no.” Melon falls under his knife as well, seeds scooped and flesh cubed into a serving bowl. Coffee. The coffee should have already been started, so he introduces grounds to filter and flips the switch so they can percolate.“Metalwork is not my forte, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Half a dozen eggs find their way into his mixing bowl, along with a splash of heavy cream, and he pulls a whisk through the lot whipping air into it with focused fervor. Anemic omelets simply won’t do.</p><p>“The galaxy, Lucifer, I recognize the basic structure but the star pattern is one I’ve never seen before. Did <i>you</i> make it?”</p><p>Suddenly, he’s there again, suspended in a deep, dark sea of black holding worlds upon worlds in the palm of his hand.</p><p>The whisk stops whisking of its own accord. He swallows. The weight of her regard falls on him, along with the penetrating focus that makes her such an asset in the lab. How could she possibly know?</p><p>“I’m not sure what you mean,” is all he gets out. He finds he’s oddly detached from the words, from the moment, and yet doesn’t dare meet her gaze. Instead, he adds salt and pepper to the egg mixture then turns away from her to find the perfect pan. Lucifer closes his eyes and draws a deep breath that shudders through him like a freight train; his knuckles ache from the grip he has on the counter’s edge as he bends to open the cabinet where the cookware is stored. </p><p>“You’re the Lightbringer, right? Before everything else?”</p><p>How doesn’t matter, only that she knows. </p><p>In his hand, the skillet shifts and clanks against seasoned cast iron. He leans his elbow then his forehead against cool granite. Of the last three people who found out, one went completely catatonic, one conspired with a renegade priest to send him back to Hell and the other shot him at point blank range. Rebuilding his relationship with the Detective had taken what felt like eons and Daniel, well, they haven’t even begun. The vengeance scenarios scrawled across the whiteboards upstairs can attest to that fact.</p><p>After everything, will he lose her? Quiet panic grips his gut and squeezes, resignation nipping at its heels. How could she possibly? But she clearly knows and she’s here. Alone with him in his home, looking relaxed despite her hangover. Shock, it must be.  </p><p>“Who told you?” he asks the counter, tracing a particularly winding vein in the granite, not trusting himself to do something so foolish as make eye contact. He doesn’t want to be the reason for the fear he might see there, that he had seen upstairs, even if it is a testament to who he was, who everyone thinks he is, who he still is sometimes.</p><p>“You did, you big goofball. Only six hundred thousand times or so,” she says, with an odd little hiccuping sob. </p><p>Lucifer dares to set the pan on the cooktop between them. A tremor quakes through his hand as he uncurls his fingers, and he shakes it out. Finally he looks. The tears have escaped their temporary prison, streaking her cheeks but she’s smiling, and she leans forward across the island to squeeze his hand with unrestrained ferocity.</p><p>She <i>knows</i> and she’s touching him. Reassuring <i>him</i>. Any moment someone will appear from a closet with a video camera and a canned laugh track, because this - her blanket, cheerful acceptance - well, it has to be a trick.</p><p>“So, you’re…okay?” </p><p>“Dude. You know I was never sold on the Devil being some overgrown bat whispering bad ideas in everyone’s ear in the first place.” She releases his hand to scrub at her cheeks, rubbing a thumb through her lashes. “I know you too. How could anyone who made <i>that</i> be evil?”</p><p>Wary still, Lucifer flicks on the burner and - on the third try - slices off a pat of butter to give the vegetables a quick saute. He’s never known Miss Lopez to lie, but perhaps the strain of the last few days has caught up with her and she’s suffered some sort of mental break.</p><p>“You’re absolutely certain?” </p><p>“What’s really changed?” she asks, blinking at him, her posture betraying only ease seasoned with the remnants of exhaustion and too much drink. It cannot possibly be this simple. </p><p>Lucifer huffs a self-deprecating laugh and pours half the egg mixture into the preheated skillet, giving it a habitual little jiggle. </p><p>He considers the question, honestly and at length, watching the edges of the omelet turn crisp and golden, the center bubble and turn firm. Miss Lopez knowing simplifies his life, but given her deep devotion and the real possibility she may soon have an encounter with the Lord her God in the flesh, he imagines it will complicate hers. Not that it matters. Anytime now, she’ll shove herself away from the counter and flee, wailing into dawn. “For me, nothing” he answers, eventually. “For you, quite a lot, I’d imagine. Given your beliefs.” </p><p>“Pssh. Don’t get me wrong I have about a million questions, but it just means I was right.”</p><p>“Sometimes you’re right,” he says, giving the pan another shimmy to keep the egg from sticking and dropping in a generous helping of cheddar. From the overhead cupboard behind him, he takes his time gathering two plates, two coffee cups, and two saucers. A quick fold of the omelet, and it’s off onto the plate to rest for a minute while the internal heat finishes cooking off the last bits of sogginess. “I think you’ll find there’s more grey in the equation than your good book would have you believe.”</p><p>In the brief intermission waiting for the pan to bring another teaspoon of butter to optimum temperature, he scoops two spoonfuls of melon onto her plate and pours them both coffee. Her smile falters and her fingers come up to rub absently at her temples. </p><p>Is this it? How long will it be before she speaks to him again? </p><p>“Eat up,” he says, and cautiously nudges both plate and cup toward her, waiting for the bombshell to truly land, the other shoe to drop. “While it’s hot.”</p><p>With no further comment, she does eat. In fact, aside from the little noise of pleasure she makes when the first bite hits her tongue, she’s silent and the smile has returned. It’s a bit disconcerting, all things considered and Lucifer focuses instead on duplicating his efforts until there’s a perfectly fluffy omelet on his plate as well. He flips the burner off mechanically.</p><p>For a moment, very brief, he’s frozen with indecision. Normally, he would either pick a stool of his own or take his breakfast on the balcony, but he finds he neither wants to invade her space nor run from her. </p><p>So the dining table shall finally have its christening. Lucifer gathers plate, cup, saucer, and silverware and settles in at the head. He has the time to wish for his flask and realize it’s still upstairs on the counter in his bathroom before the legs of her stool squeak. Miss Lopez slides into the chair at his left hand, not halfway down the table or at the foot. Immediately to his left. Lucifer might have laughed at the serendipity if not for the very real possibility he might lose one of his few true friends today.</p><p>She spears a cube of watermelon and eyes it thoughtfully, as if she’s not sure how well her stomach will handle it.</p><p>“Are <i>you</i> okay?” she asks, poking both fork and melon vaguely his direction. </p><p>“What? Why on Earth shouldn’t I be?”</p><p>It’s a feeble misdirect at best, likely transparent to one such as Miss Lopez. He tips back a searing sip of coffee and his hand, which has apparently developed a mind of its own, twitches. Cup clatters against saucer until he presses a palm across the top. </p><p>“You just seem —discombobulated.” Lucifer scoffs, and shoves a bite of omelet home to prevent any interjections. Anything he could possibly say right now is too much truth and wouldn’t improve his position. It wouldn’t make her stay. Miss Lopez shrugs, chewing slowly, deliberately as if a faster pace might exacerbate her headache. “Don’t get me wrong,” she says, “I’m still pretty discombobulated myself. My head feels like a sandbox that hosted a rave right now. But you —“</p><p>“Why are you still here?”</p><p>Bollocks. </p><p>Her expression softens and she reaches for him again, hand anchored just above his elbow. She squeezes as she had before, five little points of comforting pressure dug into his bicep. </p><p>She <i>knows</i> and she’s <i>here</i> and she’s touching him. </p><p>“Where else would I be, bud? You asked me to stay, you made me breakfast.”</p><p>Frustration blooms, dark and terrible, mangling his insides. It can’t possibly be this easy. </p><p>He doesn’t deserve it. </p><p>So, he tries again.“But you know who I am, <i>what</i> I am, and you’re still here.” With her mouth full of food, Miss Lopez shrugs her “obviously” instead of putting it into words. “You haven’t tried to murder me back to where I came from.”</p><p>“Why would I do that?” She gulps around a swallow and frowns at him like the thought never occurred to her. Perhaps it hadn’t. “Seriously.”</p><p>“Because.”</p><p>Because everything I touch breeds corruption, he thinks. And everyone he has ever cared about ends up hurt, either by his own hand or due to blowback from something he’s done. Much as he wants to forgive himself for good. Much as he truly wants to be here, he will never comprehend why they treat him as...family. True family. </p><p>Humanity’s relentless desire to see the good in others will confound him until the end. </p><p>“You’ll have to do better than that,” she says, polishing off the last of her eggs with a contented sigh. She peers at him over the rim of her coffee cup in silent challenge. </p><p>His fork clangs against the rim of his plate as he sets it aside. It’s absurd that she’s still sitting here. Even more absurd to feel like he’s the one trying to convince her to leave.“The Lightbringer is who I was. Who I am is the Devil, Miss Lopez. A happily retired Devil, but the Devil all the same.”</p><p>“And?” </p><p>“And isn’t consorting with the Devil generally frowned upon in your normal circles,” he says, irritation putting a sharpness in his tone he didn’t intend. Undeterred, she clasps the cross around her neck for a moment before letting it drop and come to rest between her collarbones. Still, she seems unmoved. </p><p>“I don’t have normal circles, Lucifer, just one big happy ball of weird.”</p><p>“You know what I mean.”</p><p>He stabs his last bit of melon and slips it between his lips, the fight seeping out of him. He’s so bloody tired. Linda, bless her, will have a field day when he relays what’s transpired. Ask him how he feels about the fact Miss Lopez didn’t vanish. And what he thinks it means that he tried to persuade her to do exactly that. </p><p>“Oh, I read you loud and clear, dude,” she says, smiles, then scoots sideways out of her chair, grimacing momentarily at the small change in elevation. Lucifer watches her skirt around him, her empty plate in hand, and gets the distinct impression she’s giving him space to process what she’s about to say.</p><p>Because she knows him.</p><p>With the island now between them, she continues. “Something tells me people disappear on you when they find out.” Miss Lopez runs water over the dish and deposits it in the sink, gaze drifting skyward and eyes closed. It’s a kindness few would even know to extend. “That they maybe overreact and escape to, I don’t know, for the sake of argument, let’s say Rome. Which,” she adds, quickly, “all responses are valid given the magnitude of this particular truth. But you said yourself once that it’s a job, a title, not who you are.”</p><p>“I did,” he admits, a tiny bright spot of hope dawning in his heart. </p><p>“I’m just choosing to believe you,” she says, like it’s a forgone conclusion, and she pins him then, as if she’s willing him to trust if not accept. “A man— excuse me, an angel of the Lord who swears up, down, and backwards he never lies. Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>“Just like that.”</p><p>“Yep, just like that.”</p><p>“You’re serious,” he says, and it’s not a question, but a statement, one that hits him like a sweetly scented updraft. Like lighting the fire in the heart of a newborn star. Like justice meted out to the deserving. Like Chloe seeing him, truly, and loving him anyway.</p><p>“As a heart attack.”</p><p>Upstairs, as if the thought summoned her, the Detective calls his name. Lucifer swallows hard and blinks, a pleasant ache throbbing in his chest, and it occurs to him that sometimes the why doesn’t matter. He could spend a lifetime grilling Miss Lopez about her reasons, or simply respect her ability to make her own decisions, daft as he feels they may be.</p><p>“Up in a minute,” he shouts, and pushes himself away from the table, half-eaten omelet and cold coffee in hand. </p><p>Miss Lopez glances at the stairs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Is she going to flip that I’m here? I didn’t think. Obviously.”</p><p>“If she does ‘flip’—and she won’t—let it be my problem not yours.” Lucifer crowds into her space then, nudging her out of the way with hip and shoulder to get to the sink. There’s a ridiculous lump in his throat he can’t put a name to when she jostles him right back, shoves a sharp knuckle into his ribs. Family, he thinks. Bloody Azrael and her meddling, dropping a sister in his lap when she couldn’t be one anymore.</p><p>“Thank you,” he sighs, gratitude pealing through him, amplified until he feels as if he might simply float away with the vibrating delight of it. “Ella, you can’t know—it means so…”</p><p>Her laughter sounds like chimes on the wind, and her arms loop around him as if she’s trying to squeeze the very life from his lungs. “Don’t strain yourself, Scratch, I know.”</p><p>Lucifer smiles down at her and offers his arm. “I was always partial to that one,” he says, and she laughs again, slipping her hand into the bend of his elbow. </p><p>“Dude, I know all your names. I can’t wait to sprinkle them into normal conversation and watch everyone’s brains go offline.” </p><p>Only Miss Lopez would find humor in this. Of all things. The Detective calls out again and he feels the undeniable tug of her gravity drawing him up and in. “Shall we?”</p><p>“We shall.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just for funsies, <a href="https://www.redbubble.com/i/socks/Pickle-Party-by-littleclyde/27074552.9HZ1B">Ella’s socks</a> and <a href="https://www.akg-images.com/archive/Le-bassin-aux-nympheas--le-soir-2UMDHUV97N3Q.html">le bassin aux nympheas</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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